The Ties That Bind
by luvin-benadam
Summary: Begins with season 2, the return of Francis and Lola, and the story of a young Queen dealing with the fallout.
1. Chapter 1

Her bed was cold. The spot he once occupied with the warmth of his body was now nothing but an empty sheet that aptly reflected the empty spot in her heart. Instinctively her hand reached out to feel for him, soft and reassuringly solid beneath the skin of her fingers, but all they found instead was the cool cotton of his absence. A physical reminder of the gaping void he had left, not only in her bed, but in her heart as well. She sighed deeply, hoping to breath in whatever scent remained of him amongst the linens of the bed they once shared. But she was only met with disappointment. His scent was gone, just as he was, almost as if he had never been there at all. Time had all but erased him.

Mary rolled over so she wouldn't have to stare at his vacancy and tried not to picture where he was in the world. Cold and away from her. In the arms of another woman. She pushed the thought from her mind and pushed herself sitting, no longer able to stand being in their bed without him.

The reality of the matter was that she was not just a girl, not the queen of anything. She was Mary, Queen of Scots. And now Queen of France. And she was determined to rise to the occasion with grace and passion, even if it meant doing so without Francis by her side.

"Any word?" Greer whispered into her ear as Mary entered the hall a time later.

Mary shook her head, unable to vocalize her disappointment. Greer's hand found the curve of her shoulder, the warmth of her skin radiating life into Mary.

"I'm sure they're both fine," she said with a smile. "And will be back any day now."

Mary smiled in what she hoped was a convincing way. "I'm sure you're right, Greer."

"Come," Greer beckoned, hooking her arm into Mary's and pulling her into the great hall. "You need to eat, you're withering away."

Mary sat reluctantly, pushing the food around her plate without enthusiasm. Guilt racked her. Subjects of the towns surrounding the castle had grown over the last week since the outbreak of the plague, begging for mercy and food and supplies. Sick and infected, Mary was powerless to help them. As it was rations were beginning to run thin within the castle. And while the infected lined the castle walls, bringing supplies in or out was not an option without running the risk of the disease spreading inside.

"Eat," Bash commanded.

Mary's eyes flicked up to meet his. She could see her own worry reflected back at her.

"I'm fine, really," Mary reassured.

"No you're not," Bash replied. "I've hardly seen you eat a morsel of food since Francis left. You're the Queen, Mary. You need to take care of yourself."

"I'm fine, Bash," she snapped. "I don't need you looking out for me."

Mary pushed her plate away from her and stood, leaving the table and her concerned friends to watch her walk away. Feeling powerless was one of the things Mary hated most in life. She was the Queen of two nations, yet she had never felt more out of control in her life. She quickly found herself in the meeting chambers where some of her trusted advisors stood, heads buried in tension and maps.

"It's spreading, isn't it?" Mary asked as she entered the room.

The men were quick to bow to her presence. "There's really no sure way of knowing, your Grace. We can't get men out to survey the lands with the crowds lining the castle walls."

Mary nodded. "I understand. But I also have an idea. We need supplies, not only here in the castle, but the surrounding towns need them too. I propose we use the passageways."

Knots of confusion knit itself between the eyes of the men. "The passageways, your Majesty?"

Mary nodded. "I can tell you a couple of them that will lead you straight out to the stables. They are risky, no doubt. But we can no longer afford to hide within these walls. This calls for action."

Small smiles pulled up the lips of the men, pride in watching the young woman become a queen before their eyes.

"Yes your Grace. We will start working on the plans immediately."

Mary smiled and opened her mouth to reply when another guard entered. He was young, freckles lining the bridge of his nose and the soft skin beneath his eyes.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, your Lords," he said sheepishly.

Mary approached him softly. "What is it?" Her voice was inviting but held clear authority.

"It's King Francis, your Grace. He's at the west gate."

Mary's heart stuttered, unsure if she had heard him right.

"Your command said the portcullis was not to be opened without your word. What would you like us to do, your Grace?'

She didn't even try to hide the barrage of emotions that skittered across her face like the telling of a book. Conflict pulled at her.

"King Francis, is he alone?"

"No, your Grace. The Lady Lola is with him. And a baby."

Mary felt her face fall. She knew what heartache and relief was about to be in store for her.

"Are they showing any signs of infection?"

The young guard shook his head. "No, your Grace, none of the early signs at least."

"Bring a physician. I want them thoroughly inspected before they are let inside these walls." She looked to the advisors behind her, nodding their approval of her decision. "And take me to them."

The guard nodded and beckoned her. Mary didn't know how she felt. Relieved that Francis and Lola were alive. And the baby. The baby. Mary hated the resentment that coursed through her. The jealousy that another woman, her friend, was the woman who bore her husbands first child. Tears clouded her eyes but she pushed them back. She was the Queen. She would not show weakness.

As they exited the castle and crossed the grounds, the west gate, carved into the stone of the high outer wall, slowly came into view. It was one of the few remaining entrances to the castle grounds that didn't have a crowd of sick villagers gathered outside. Mary wondered how long it had taken Francis and Lola to find an unobstructed entrance.

A moment of fear, cold and hard, seized her. She could see Francis and Lola standing on the other side of the gate, just out of reach, and abruptly stopped walking. Tucked into the crook of Lola's arm was a small bundle. Mary cringed at what that tiny bundle would mean for the rest of her marriage.

"Are you coming, your Grace?" the young guard asked, coming to a stop beside her.

"I might wait here," Mary said with a nod, reassuring herself more than him. Francis was there, right in front of her. She could see with her own eyes that he was, at the very least, alive. But she suddenly wasn't ready to greet him yet.

"Yes, your Grace. Shall I wait with you?"

A small, grateful smile pulled at the corners of her lips. "Okay." Her hands trembled as she raised them to her lips and retreated a small distance back, far enough to hide herself behind a tall marble statue.

"Raise the gate!" A voice cried out.

Mary watched with bated breath as the portcullis rose, and her future walked back into her life.


	2. Chapter 2

Dread pulled at her, fraying the seams of her already fragile soul, separating her into two halves of a fractured whole. She fought them both, refusing to choose one side over the other, trying to allow her humanity to win out over the anguish that threatened to engulf her. But already she felt the despair of her situation choking her like fingers around the tender skin of her neck, seeping the air from her lungs. Her hands shook, one palm pressed into her shaking lips, hoping to find comfort within the warmth of her own skin. But there was no comfort to be found. Not anymore.

More than anything Mary had wanted to stand her ground, be strong and brave and face Francis and Lola head on. Show them her relief that they were alive and safe. That their child, _their child, _had made a safe arrival into this twisted world. But the sight of Francis, his arm draped protectively over Lola's shoulder as she cradled their baby, propelled her from their sights, back into the safety of her chambers to be alone.

Alone. She had never felt more alone in her life.

Mary turned to the windows, seeking solace in the crisp morning air, breathing in the salt the wind carried over from the sea. It did nothing to quell the nausea that rose within her. She wanted so badly to be accepting of Francis and Lola's situation, of the new baby that she would have to make a place for in her life as her husband's child, but she wasn't quite ready to be that strong. She wanted a few more minutes to fall apart.

A soft knock sounded on her door and Mary's heart skipped a beat.

"Yes?" Even to her own ears her voice held clear apprehension.

The young guard appeared looking cautious. "Your Grace," he bowed. "King Francis and Lady Lola have not been infected. Lady Lola is resting in her rooms with her babe. She's asking for you."

"And King Francis?" Her voice shook as his name left her lips.

The guard stuttered. "I'm not sure, your Grace."

Mary nodded, pushing down the rise of anguish that threatened to engulf her. "Please tell Lady Lola that I will be down in a moment."

With a nod he closed the door and left her to spend her final minutes of solitude preparing herself for what was about to come. Preparing herself to meet her husband's child.

_ "I can feel myself growing harder, and I worry that I'm becoming someone that you will not love." _

_ "Then don't. Don't grow harder. Share your burdens. If we can't forgive each other perhaps we can forgive ourselves." _

He had made it sound so simple. So easy. But Mary wasn't sure she was ready to forgive herself. Ready to forgive him. The burning hatred inside her had seared itself to her soul in a way she wasn't sure she would be able to rid. Steeling herself with the last ounces of fleeting bravery in her body, Mary swallowed and left the safety of her rooms.

A guard stood watch outside Lola's door and bowed when Mary reached his gaze. "Lady Lola is expecting you, your Grace," he said as he swung the door outwards for her, allowing her a brief glimpse into the room before taking a step over the threshold.

Lola was so engaged in the bundle in her arms that she didn't even notice Mary's entrance, eyes never leaving the face of the baby tucked into the safe crook of her arm, mouth cooing soft noises to shush the silent child. She approached slowly, absorbing the gravity of the moment.

"You look well," she heard herself say.

Lola glanced up, startled at Mary's silent entrance. "Mary!" she proclaimed.

Mary smiled softly and slowly approached the side of the bed, her eyes finding the child for the first time. It was a little thing, pink skin flush against the cotton of the blanket it was wrapped in. Eyes closed, mouth puckering. A soft tuft of downy blonde hair against the crown of its head, little fists in balls against the sides of its face.

"It's a boy," Lola proclaimed with pride and happiness, but quickly stifled her expression of joy at the look on Mary's face.

"Are you well? You and the baby?" Mary asked, her eyes not leaving the sleeping child.

Lola waited for Mary's dark eyes to meet her light, but Mary only had eyes for the baby.

"Yes," Lola said slowly. "Tired and sore. But happy to be home. Thanks to you, Mary. We never would have made it home if it weren't for…."

His name hung in the air between them. Mary finally looked away from the baby at the absence of his name.

"Thank you, for sending help."

Mary smiled. "I tried to come myself. But with the outbreak…" Her sentence trailed off.

"Of course," Lola nodded.

Mary stilled, eyes trailing back to the sleeping bundle. "His name?"

"I thought that Francis might want…." Lola swallowed. She knew that sharing a baby with her best friends husband would not be ideal, but she hoped that the awkwardness would quickly disappear. "We haven't picked anything yet. Everything happened so quickly."

She tried to ignore the pang of hurt the word 'we' caused and managed a small nod instead of words. Hesitantly, Mary reached out a hand toward the child, the back of her index finger softly stroking the new skin of the baby's face. The child stirred at the contact, button nose turning in her direction, feathery eyelashes blinking against the pale skin beneath, stirring from some far off slumber. Mary had plenty of experience with babies before but this one felt different. There was a strange sense of attachment battling against a bitter resentment.

"Would you like to hold him?"

Mary withdrew her hand. "I…" She was at a loss for words. "I really have to be going." She took a step back with regret as Lola's face fell in disappointment. "But I'm glad that you're back, Lola. And I'm glad that you and the baby are safe and healthy. Truly."

She forced a smile onto her face and retreated as quickly as she could without running, blindly turning corners until she found an empty corridor, pressed her back into the cold stone of the castle wall, and wept as she slid into a heap on the floor. Conflict ripped her apart. Mary hated the fact that she resented the child. Hated the fact that she resented Francis for choosing Lola and the baby over her. Over his country. Their country. Hated that she had lost everything decent and human about herself. She longed for the girl she was when she first arrived in France. Young and carefree and wild. Filled with hope about the years to come. Now all she felt was dread.

Tears stained lines down the plains of her face as she tucked her knees into her chest and buried her head against the bones, sobbing into the fabric of her dress.

"Mary." His voice was like a whisper from the dead, far off and dreamlike, a hush of syllables from anguished lips. "Mary."

He crouched at her feet, hands touching any inch of her he could, revelling in the feel of her beneath him again. It had felt like so long that they had been apart.

She didn't dare look up, humiliated by her breakdown. She was the Queen. She could feel his hands tracing circles into the exposed skin of her arms, touching the down of her hair, relishing the feel of her after so long. He hadn't felt at home until the moment he touched her.

"Mary," he pried again, his thumb and finger finding the tender spot beneath her chin and lifting so he could finally see her eyes.

Her sobs quieted while she absorbed the sight of him before her. "Do you hate me?"

Confusion knotted itself between his eyes. "Hate you? Mary how could I ever hate you?"

"I knew that Lola was carrying your child. I knew and I kept it from you."

Francis sighed cupped her face between his palms. "Lola explained everything, Mary. Explained that she made you keep the baby a secret. I don't hate you, Mary. I love you."

Her eyes held a sense of disbelief.

"You must hate me though. For leaving you with all of this on your own. I'm so sorry, Mary, so sorry. You told me that you felt yourself growing harder. In truth I felt myself doing the same. I don't want to be my father. I want to be a good King. I want to be a good husband. And I am going to do what is right by this country, by you. I don't know how, but I will. You told me to stop making you promises that I know in my heart that I can't keep. Here is my promise to you: I promise that no matter what, I will always, always, try to be a good king and a good husband."

Mary was silent, breathing in the weight of his words. "Francis." It was all she could manage. The simplicity of his name held the weight of the world for her. "I love you, I do. But you left me. You left me to go to another woman. And while the reasoning is entirely understandable," she took a deep breath and gathered the words within her mouth, "I'm going to need some time."


	3. Chapter 3

**So this is a bit of a filler chapter. Not a lot of plot happenings here. But there's a small bit of Frary fluff and a little bit of lemons. Fair warning and happy reading. **

There was a palpable tension in the air as he gently pushed open the door, the room rife with the smell of grief and despair, dark in the late hour. Guilt racked him as he gently pulled the door closed behind him to stand within the walls, indecision battling internally. He could tell from the sound of her breathing across the room that she was still awake. Francis could see the flutter of her dark lashes against the stark contrast of her pale skin from where she lay in their bed in the middle of the room, hand balled into a fist next to her face, breathing in his proximity from his spot across from her.

"Shall I find another place to sleep?" He whispered into the still air.

Silence greeted his ears and Francis wondered if she had perhaps fallen asleep. He contemplated leaving but the thought of spending another night away from her when she was within the same walls as him was unimaginable.

"No," was her quiet response after a long pause.

Relief was letting out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. On careful feet he closed the distance between them, placing himself delicately on the edge of the bed, his lower back pressed against the warm curve of her legs beneath the blankets.

"Mary." Her name was a welcome on his lips after his time away from her, full of the sorrow of his decisions, heavy with promise he dared not speak just yet.

With a hesitant movement, she reached out and placed her warm hand on the cool fabric of his knee. It was the only sign he needed from her. Francis turned to look into her face, blank expression, hand still touching him. His own fingers found the soft skin of her face, thumb caressing the bone of her cheek.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, anguish filling his voice at the pain he had caused his wife.

"I know," she replied.

Silence filled the gap between them, heavy with the things neither was ready to say.

"Stay with me tonight?" She asked.

Francis smiled. "Always."

He gently crawled over her body to his spot in the bed, cold from his absence, and settled himself next to Mary, wanting desperately to touch her but not knowing if she could allow it. Her body turned in the bed to face him, hands carefully pressed tight against her own body, wanting desperately to reach out but fighting an internal battle.

Mary wanted so badly to just forgive him. To forgive them. To not be Catherine and treat the child with distain and spite. But she wasn't ready. Couldn't quite bring herself to push past the pain of their betrayal and move forward. But if she couldn't forgive him, she could always just try to forget for awhile. There was her husband, the one she loved so dearly, back in their bed after their time apart, so close she could touch him. Perhaps she didn't have to forgive him quite yet, but could still benefit from his presence, could still revel in her happiness at having him back home.

She crossed the distance between them and placed her hand on his face and gently moved her body forward, her front touching his, the warmth of his skin seeping into her own, leaned forward and pressed her lips to his, relishing the taste of him, the feel of him. His response was instant, hand snaking around her waist, pulling her tighter to him, mouth eagerly pressed against her own, his knee gently pressing its way between her own and coming to rest in the folds of fabric of her nightdress.

"But I thought," he said in between her eager kisses. "You needed…"

She responded not with words but with more kisses, his lips, his cheeks, down the hard line of his jaw to the tender spot of his neck, grazing lightly with her teeth to illicit the response she wanted. It had the desired effect and his words stopped flowing, distracted by the feel of her beneath him. She let her hands wander from his face, slowing tracing down his chest, his back, tantalizingly slow until they reached the band of his pants. She felt him flex instinctively beneath her fingers, dipping slowly beneath the band until her hands found what they were looking for. He moaned hard into her mouth as she stroked him, his hands desperately pulling the fabric of her dress upwards and off her body.

Francis wasn't sure how this constituted space but he wasn't complaining, not with her naked body beneath his own, her mouth pressed hard into his, her hands tracing sensitive circles against the tender skin of his sides. He had longed for her since the moment he had left her side. Their passion reached a peak in a blinding explosion that left them both exhausted and panting against the sheets, Mary draped over Francis' chest, Francis toying gently with the tangled strands of her hair splayed across the pillows.

"You know I love you, don't you?" He whispered into the top of her head, pressing a kiss to prove his point.

"I do."

Francis didn't know how else to apologise for his indiscretion, he could only hope that Mary could find it in her heart to forgive him. And though she had given herself to him on the night of their reunion, Francis knew that by no means did it mean that she had moved past him having a child with one of her ladies.

"Your kisses are more easily attained than your words."

She fulfilled his statement by remaining silent. "I'm sorry," she finally said.

"You don't have anything to be sorry for, Mary. I'm just grateful that you're allowing me to stay with you."

"You're my husband, Francis. Where else should you be than beside me?"

He smiled and pressed his lips to her forehead. "There's nowhere else I would ever want to be."

Mary closed her eyes and hoped more than anything that his statement was true. She had firsthand seen the bond between Diane and Henry, lives forever entwined by the son they shared, a bond that could never be broken. Mary hoped that Francis and Lola could maintain a civil relationship for the benefit of their child, but no more. Francis was her husband and she refused to live like Catherine, sharing a man and his love. She respected herself too much for that.

"We should sleep. You must be exhausted after your long journey."

Francis nodded in agreement. "You don't want to talk about anything before we do? I want you to be able to share your feelings with me, Mary."

She smiled solemnly. "I will, Francis. Just not tonight."

His expression remained blank as he nodded. "Okay, Mary."

She pressed a kiss to his cheek, extracted herself from the folds of his arms, rolled over in the bed so her back was to him, and gently drifted off into an uneasy sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

She awoke with a dull throb pushing in her lower belly, stirring her from her uneasy sleep and back into the world of the living with a terrible start, a physical manifestation of the emotion pain that gripped her. She rolled gently onto her other side, his body, unsheathed and warm, so close to her own. Innocence swept the plains of his face, restful and calm in his ease. Mary wished her own contentment came as easily and fought the resentment that flitted through her. She knew that there was a strength in letting go, but she was praying for the moment when that strength would come.

With a certain assuredness she reached out and touched the curve of his nose, long and smooth beneath the pads of her fingers, tracing the soft lines of his lips, swollen from her kisses, his chin, his jaw, the roughness of the hair that grew along the strong lines. He stirred under her hand, throat contracting with a thick swallow, light eyes heavy with sleep flitting open to meet her dark.

Her face remained expressionless, dark and breathing in his proximity, revelling in the feel of his skin under her own but refusing to show him that he was her weakness.

"How is it possible for someone to look so beautiful this early?" His breath was sweet against her face.

She allowed the briefest of smiles to grace her lips and his reaction, a deep, cheeky grin, set off her own, a deliciously innocent giggle of someone much more light hearted than herself.

He pulled her body tight against his own, relishing the softness of her skin, and ached for the moments of their relationship when it had all come with so much more ease. When the undertones of his night with Lola weren't etched into her every touch, when he didn't have to worry if Mary was thinking about his time with Lola while he made love to her. He needed her to know that she was the only woman that would ever have his heart but it was so hard to prove to her while she doubted every inch of their marriage.

"I wish you would tell me where your head is," he whispered, his mouth flush against her ear.

Heartbeats quickened, noticed by both, pressed against one another's and separated only by a thin layer of bone and flesh. A hitch of breaths, halted in symmetrical moments, a parallel of one another.

"Please," he begged.

She pressed her nose into the flesh of his neck, breathing in the scent of him and feeling his pulse quicken with her proximity. "I can't."

Gently he pushed her away to better see her face, cupping each cheek in the palm of his hands. "You can. Mary, please. I need you to tell me how you feel."

She shook her head, prying his hands off her skin and pushing herself upright in bed, tightening the blankets around her vulnerable torso. "Francis."

He could hear the crack in her voice as she said his name that indicated her breakdown. It was in the simplicity of his name from her lips that Francis realized just how badly he had hurt his wife. He pushed himself upwards but refrained from touching her, exercising all his will to not reach out and comfort her.

"If I start to talk about this, about how badly you hurt me," she took a breath to steady her words, hating the weakness that seeped out, "Then I don't know how I will ever get over it. Right now, right now I just need to forget."

He bit back his words, wanting to repeat over and over how much he loved her. But Mary had never doubted his love for her. Just the actions he had taken despite that love. Francis knew anything else he could say to her in this moment would fall on deaf ears. That time alone would heal the betrayal he had placed so carelessly in her lap at his own selfishness.

Unable to resist, Francis reached out and stroked a finger down the length of her spine. His heart fell when, instead of flexing and reacting under his touch as she had always done before, the contact of his skin on hers had had no effect at all. Dread filled him. He pressed a gentle kiss to the curve of her shoulder and untangled himself from the blankets they shared.

"I'll leave you."

She didn't miss the heavy tone of guilt his words carried and as much as she wanted to call out for him, to tell him to come back to her, she didn't. Instead she let him walk out of the door and leave her to wallow in the misery they had created for themselves.

FM

Self loathing ripped him apart on a level he had never felt before. Not even killing his own father made him hate himself as much, though the comparison was close. Rage battled against intense depression, and while it was hard to resent the baby boy that was a result of his moment of weakness, Francis felt himself wishing that night with Lola had never happened. He wandered the halls aimlessly, having nowhere to go, wanting to be nowhere else than the place he was not wanted.

A familiar face rounded the corner, tight with worry that reflected his brothers.

"You look like hell."

Francis couldn't even muster a sarcastic smile.

"That bad?" Bash asked, concern flooding him.

"I've ruined things with Mary for good. She'll never forgive me for this."

Bash shook his head, his hand crossing the gap between them and finding a comforting place on his brothers arm. "Of course she will. Just give her some time. I'm sure it's not easy on any of you."

Francis shook his head, determined to stew in self pity and hatred. "I don't know, Bash. I really don't know."

"Mary loves you."

Francis knew that Bash's statement was true, but doubted the strength of that love to overcome his actions. He shook his head and let a sigh escape his lips.

"Don't give up on her, brother. Fight for her."

Francis nodded. "I'm not sure where to draw the line, Bash. She wants space."

"So give it to her," he stated matter of factly. "Just don't give her so much space that she'll forget how much you love her, and how equally she loves you in return."

Francis wished he had his brothers faith in his marriage.

"Thank you, Bash."

Bash smiled with a cheeky wink. "It's what brothers are for. However I do have to go back to my own wife now."

"Everything all right?" Francis asked, ashamed that he hadn't even asked about his Bash's troubles.

"Just trying to balance having a wife and having a job to do. Nothing to worry yourself about. Take care, brother."

"You too."

Francis turned and watched Bash walk away, back to his wife awaiting him in their bed, and pushed back the bite of jealousy that seized him. He admired Bash for making the most of his forced arrangement to Kenna, admired that he was a good enough man to fall in love with his wife, not out of obligation, but out of choice.

As he turned back around to walk to the great hall, Mary came into view. Francis could tell right away that something was wrong. Her face was pale, almost grey, a blueish tinge around her full lips. One hand braced herself against the cool stone of the castle wall, the other gripped her lower abdomen, face contorted in pain.

"Mary," he gasped, crossing the threshold between them.

"Francis." Her voice was hollow and scared.

"What happened?" He asked, one of his large, warm hands covering her own, the other supporting the weight of her thin body against his.

"Something's wrong."

"Are you hurt? Tell me, please. Mary what is it?"

She squeezed her eyes shut as another wave of pain rocked through her. Francis had never been more afraid in his life.

"The baby," she muttered, knees buckling under the weight of the pain. Francis wrapped her arm over his shoulder and held her tightly, breath hitching with the impact of her words.

"Baby?" Disbelief seized him. "Mary, are you with child?"

The nod of her head was almost missed as she buried her face into his chest.

"Francis, please. Please make it stop."

As the shock settled in, Francis realized he needed to get Mary to a physician as soon as possible if there was any chance of keeping the baby alive. Of keeping Mary alive. Mind still reeling, he propped her weight onto his shoulder, swept her knees into his other arm and carried her, trying to ignore the wetness of her blood against the sleeve of his shirt.


	5. Chapter 5

Fear stretched, heavy and languid, through the bones of his body, winding its way through the fragile veins of his heart, his head, numbing his fingers and tightening invisible hands around the tender air of his lungs. He paced, his feet wearing down the smooth stone of the castle floor, aimlessly back and forth across the threshold of the door, fingers pressed tight to his mouth to stifle the fear attempting to escape. A coldness had stilled within him, shaking the sense from his mind and his body, filling him with a terror he had never felt before. It filled him like a canon, all leaden and ready to fire, yet extinguished without subtly, half burned, half lit, prepared to fracture apart into dust at a mere touch.

He could hear nothing, see nothing, ripped from her side, her blood still staining his once white shirt, the only reminder that she had lay in his arms at all. The room before him was still. Francis wasn't sure if that showed promise or concern. All he could think about was Mary.

Fingers twisted in emotional agony around the hem of his blood stained shirt, guilt burning like hot oil through his veins. Mary, pregnant, and he had no idea. She had kept it from him and he didn't blame her in her slightest. And now, he choked back the thought, he may have already lost the child he never even knew about. Could possibly lose his wife. His light. The thought was unimaginable.

Relentlessly he continued to pace, the soles of his feet protesting. Time had no meaning, no relevance. It's passage was simply more moments of his life he was separated from her. Moments that she needed him. Moments that he needed her. He was slowly being driven mad by their absence from each other, when someone else was responsible for her safety and he was powerless to help her. As King, the thought was excruciating. That with all the power in the world sitting at the tips of his fingers, in this moment, he could do nothing for her.

"Your Majesty."

He turned so abruptly that the sound of his cracking bones echoed through the silent halls.

"Is she okay?"

The physicians face was pale, exhausted by tireless hours of trying to save the Queen of France's life. "Come with me."

Francis didn't understand what the statement meant. Whether Mary and their child were alive or not. He prayed with every ounce of energy he had left. On quick feet he followed through the large white room, head spinning.

Her body met his eyes as he rounded a corner, face so pale she melded into the sheets beneath her, eyes closed, breath shallow. But a breath nonetheless.

"She's alive?" The relief was apparent even to his own ears.

His question was met with a brief nod. "Only just. But alive. The Queen has lost a lot of blood, your Majesty."

"And the baby?" It sounded strange to his ears, the prospect of their child, a mere figment of thought.

"The baby lives. But I am afraid for its life, your Majesty. The situation is perilous. The Queen will need much rest over the next while if she wishes to keep your child."

Francis felt his lungs fill for the first time, oxygen surging through him like fire, igniting the coldness that had settled. He hadn't realized he had been drowning until the alleviation of water had been lifted, the wet pressure gone. Mary was alive. The baby was alive. He had never been more grateful for anything in his life.

"What can I do to help her?"

The physician smiled, impressed by his new young king's compassion and devotion to his wife. He had seen countless before him that only cared for heirs, for the prospect of children to carry on their lineage. The matter of the mother and their health had only seemed like a cumbersome burden in the quest for an inheritor.

"Let her rest. Do not worry her with anything. Keep her calm and relaxed. And for the next little while, keep her in bed."

Francis smiled ruefully at the prospect of keeping his stubborn, strong-willed wife in bed while there were matters of state to be dealt with. He only hoped that her desire to be a mother out-weighed her innate nature to control.

"I can do that," he stated without assurance. "Or I can try, at the very least."

The physician smiled. "I'll leave you." He turned, his slow and gabled walk echoing across the infirmary walls.

"Did you know?" Francis called after him.

His gaze turned back but made no move to walk forward. "I did, your Majesty. Forgive me. Your wife wanted to keep it secret until such a time when she felt ready."

"How far along is she?"

"Almost nine weeks, your Majesty."

Francis nodded and turned back to Mary's bed, breath hitching and shock settling back in. Nine weeks. For nine weeks his wife had known that they were to be parents, that their child grew within her. And yet she had said nothing. He didn't resent her for keeping the knowledge to herself, only wondered what thoughts had spun through her mind as she kept the secret to herself.

The acidic realization that Mary was already pregnant when he left her to be with Lola electrified through him. Anguish, heavy in his heart and his mind, propelled him towards the chair at her bedside, revelling in the betrayal she must have felt when he left her. Newly Queen, pregnant with his child, left to run his country alone while he abandoned her to run after her friend, the mother of his bastard child.

He had never felt lesser of a man. All his good intentions to be a good king, to be a good man, had benefited one woman and devastated another.

Francis reached out, his hand finding the supple curve of her palm, holding her cold hand within his guilt ridden one and brought it to his lips, gently breathing life back into the coldness that had stolen over her. Shallow breaths rose and fell from her chest, the only indication of life among her still and quiet body. With great hesitation he reached his free hand and placed it on her belly, lightly running the tips of his fingers over the spot where their child grew. He could not tell if it was imagination or actuality, but Francis could feel the gentle rise of a small bump under her bellybutton, unnoticeable unless looking for it, the first sign of the baby.

The power of his happiness took him by surprise and a resounding and boyish grin lit the plains of his face. As if she could feel the power of the moment, of its significance, Mary's eyes slowly opened, blinking off the brashness of the bright daylight streaming through the open windows. Her head turned to meet his, hand instinctively reached for the curve of her abdomen that she alone knew was there. Her fingers met Francis' and with a knowing look, both their hands wrapped protectively, Mary knew that Francis knew.

"What happened?" Her voice was a shell of the strong and confidant woman she was.

Francis smiled sadly, happy to see her awake but no less worried. "We're going to be parents."

Confusion knit itself between her eyebrows. "But I thought…" her sentence hung in the air between them. "The baby…"

"Lives," he finished. "The baby lives. The physician says you lost a lot of blood but you're going to be okay. You're both going to be okay."

She glanced down to his hand, draped protectively over the small bump under the blankets. A fury of emotions gripped her.

"If I had known," Francis began.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you," Mary interrupted. "Truly, I am. But with everything happening with your father and the coronation and Lola, I just didn't want to worry you any more."

Francis shook his head. "That's not what I'm saying. I'm not angry with you for keeping it from me, Mary. And not knowing is still no excuse for what I've done. All I was going to say is that if I had known, I would have done so many things differently."

"None of that matters now," she whispered, intertwining her fingers with his own.

"No it doesn't," he agreed. "We're going to be parents, that's all that matters now. And that you and the baby are both healthy and safe. The physician has some requests for you."

She nodded slowly, knowing she would need to sacrifice in order to have the family her and Francis wanted so desperately.

"And I will do whatever you need to make sure of it."

Mary smiled, filled with relief at Francis finally knowing her secret, the burden of it lifted. She reached her hand outward and cupped the curve of his cheek in her palm, enjoying the feel of his stubble in her hand. "I love you, Francis."

"And you know I love you."

**Not to fear, I have no intention of making Mary lose the baby. Like most of you I'm sure, I was totally and completely devastated by her miscarriage in the show, even though I had a feeling it would happen and prepared myself for such. It still hurt. So, in order to get a sense of fulfillment that the producers have deprived us of, the Frary baby lives in my little world ****J**** Feel free to leave reviews, I love hearing from any and all of you! **


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